Marque of Caine – Snippet 19

For the thirty-second time, Riordan started his day at Wolf
424 A by turning on the commplex. Nine hours ago, just before rolling into his
bunk, he’d finished his fourth complete read-through of all the available
material on the Dornaani, taking notes as he went. Today, he’d start–

The walls emitted the distinctive double-yowl of the
emergency klaxon: unidentified contact.

Riordan was on his feet, moving toward his rack. “Q-command:
hi-gee configuration.” His bunk began converting into an acceleration
couch, a pressure-rated cover rotating up into seal-ready position.

Just as he reached it, his intercom chirped through a flurry
of tones: message from the bridge.

“Riordan here.”

“Commodore, the captain asks you join her. All possible
haste, sir.”

Riordan smiled. “Are the Dornaani behaving oddly?”

“No, sir. It’s not the Dornaani. It’s the Arat Kur.”

* * *

Peña was already on the bridge when Riordan arrived, half
drifting, half glide-walking into the tiered chamber. Ed reached out an arm to
ensure that Caine stopped where he intended.

Riordan waved it off as he got a grip on the intended
handhold, smiled crookedly. “Not a total newb.”

Peña shrugged, didn’t say anything. It was unclear if that
was simply his natural taciturnity or because he decided not to contradict his
superior.

Schoeffel came swim-dancing in from the other side, hooked a
finger at Caine. “Come take a look.” She adjusted her drift with a
slight deck-kick and bulkhead push; that angled her down toward the sensor
station. She jabbed a finger at a cluster of five red motes. “Those bogeys
are Arat Kur or I’m a shave tail.”

Riordan took hold of the back of the sensor officer’s seat,
pulled himself closer. “Bring up whatever data you have on their thruster
emissions.”

“Mister–eh, Commodore Riordan, like I told the
captain, they’re still eight light minutes out. We don’t have enough–“

Riordan glanced at the density of the particle trail, the
heat of the exhaust, and its approximate shape. Nodding, he checked the
acceleration of the oncoming craft. “Definitely not one of ours. Anything
we have with that kind of performance leaves a much bigger exhaust smudge and
lots more particles.” He looked up at Schoeffel’s face, saw eagerness and
concern in equal measures. “How’d you identify them at this range, Captain?”

“Same way you did: saw roach combat drones up close and
personal, four years ago.”

Riordan glanced at the navplot near the center of the
bridge. “So where the hell did they come from?”

Schoeffel drifted toward the faux 3-d chart table, shrank
the scale: both of Wolf 424’s red dwarfs came into view. The guidon indicating
the Down-Under‘s position was tucked
behind what appeared to be a blue marble orbiting the closer star. She pointed
to it. “That’s us, snugged in on the dark side of the only gas giant, not
quite as big as Neptune.” She pointed to the five red motes. The computer
projection traced their known vectors and then extrapolated backward, showed
them as emerging from around the far side of Wolf 424 A. “Didn’t see them
coming, given the angle.”

“The angle?” asked Ed, who had drifted closer.

Schoeffel pointed impatiently at distant Wolf 424 B, which
was mostly eclipsed by the primary star. “Look. The planet and two stars
are almost in syzygy. From our position at the gas giant, Wolf 424 B is almost
in perfect opposition and only a few degrees off the ecliptic.”

Ed nodded. “So, when they came from the far side of 424
A, probably a week or so ago, they had the other star–424 B–at their back.
Sensors couldn’t pick them out.”

Schoeffel nodded; her expression suggested that Peña had
risen slightly in her opinion. “Even if they were under thrust, our
sensors would have had to stay fixed on exactly the right spot to have any
chance of noticing any spectral wiggle their exhausts would have caused.”
She glanced at Riordan. “Sorry, sir. This tub’s arrays are nothing like
milspec.”

Caine nodded. “Which they were counting on. Just as
they were counting on our main hull–and therefore, the main array–to be
behind the gas giant, shielding ourselves from flares while we refueled.
Textbook. What do you think they are, Captain?”

“Drones. No doubt about it. Ratio of acceleration to
approximate mass says those platforms are compact, no mass or volume dedicated
to life support.”

Riordan looked at the navplot again. “I agree. Which is
why there’s probably another piece on the game board that we haven’t seen yet.”

“Their shift-carrier, sir?” The sensor officer
pointed behind Wolf 424 A. “Almost still on the far side, where we can’t
see her.”

The captain frowned at the navplot, then raised an eyebrow. “A
control craft.”

Riordan nodded. “We are almost two AU from 424 A: like
you said, eight light minutes, more or less. If these are unpiloted vehicles,
then their actions are being controlled in one of three ways. One: from their
probably point of origin, which means a sixteen minute command cycle. Two: they
are in a fully autonomous attack mode. Or, three: there’s a control ship that’s
probably within a few light seconds.”

Schoeffel nodded. “The last option is the only one that
makes sense. Those drones will be dead twenty times over if they have to wait
sixteen minutes for orders, and autonomous controls might not engage the
priority target.” She looked meaningfully at Riordan. “But if they’ve
got a control ship out there, it must be lying doggo.”

Riordan scanned the plot. “Does this gas giant have any
satellites?”

“None. And only one other starward planet within an AU.”

“Then it’s probably a very small craft maintaining a
position on the opposite side of this gas giant.”

Schoeffel shook her head. “I doubt it. We’ve had
automated fuel skimmers making runs around the bright side. Never got a sensor
return.”

Riordan raised an eyebrow. “Were the skimmers running
autonomously?”

Schoeffel nodded, then grinned ruefully. “Yeah.
Rudimentary sensor package slaved to even more rudimentary auton.” She
maneuvered closer to him. “That means they could have doggo drones back
there with the control ship.”

Riordan nodded. “Expect these bogeys to make a pass at
such high relative velocity that you have damn little chance to hit them. The
doggo drones could then swing around from the blind side of the gas giant and
clean up whatever the first group didn’t get.”

Schoeffel glanced at the plot. “Judging from the bogeys’
rate of approach, they’ll cover those two light seconds in about ten minutes.
At most.”

Riordan nodded. “Right. So how can I–?”

“You can go with Mr. Peña, Commodore,” Schoeffel
interrupted. She nodded to Peña, who drifted unusually close to Riordan. “We
have a contingency for this, but we don’t have a lot of time.” She nodded
aft. “So, smartly now.”

“Captain–” Riordan stopped, momentarily caught
between his resolve to survive and save Elena, and his reflex to never leave
comrades to fight in his stead.

He turned and launched himself into a long glide back toward
the entry.

* * *

Once they were inside the keel-following shuttle-car, Peña
nodded for Caine to strap in. Caine did–just as the car’s sudden acceleration
almost threw him out of his seat. They were pulling more than a gee.

Peña smiled slightly. “The Old Lady has overridden the
safety parameters. We’ll be there in about ninety seconds.”

“Where?”

“Aft cargo moorings.”

Riordan frowned, then realized. “Not all of those bulk
cargo containers are filled with routine stores, are they?”

Peña shook his head, watched the overhead transit monitor
plot their progress down the keel.

Riordan tapped his collarcom. “Access command channel.
Authorization: Riordan One.” Bridge chatter abruptly emerged from his tiny
communicator, as well as one-sided conversations with engineering, flight
operations, and gunnery. The latter was a woefully short exchange: as a
commercial shift-carrier, the Down-Under had no offensive systems, just point-defense fire lasers for splashing inbound
warheads.

Peña seemed distracted by the chatter, as if he didn’t want
to listen to it but couldn’t keep from doing so. When he saw Caine studying
him, he looked away. Quickly.

Suddenly, Caine understood. “You and Schoeffel sure did
have me fooled. Are you two still an item, or is that long past?”

Peña sighed. “Past. Had to be. Happened when we were
serving.”

“And you were enlisted and she was an officer?”

He shrugged. “You know how it is. Even if people are
willing to look the other way, the stable boy still can’t date the princess.”